Had he not, rather, a vastly better chance of getting some of that money into his own pocket?  It really seemed as if Kirkwood—­though he might be only artful—­had relinquished his claim on the girl, at all events for the present; possibly he was an honest man, which would explain his behaviour.  Michael Snowdon could not live much longer; Jane would be the ward of the Percivals, and certainly would be aided to a position more correspondent with her wealth.  Why should it then be impossible for him to become Jane’s husband?  Joseph, beyond a doubt, could be brought to favour that arrangement, by means of a private understanding more advantageous to him than anything he could reasonably hope from the girl’s merely remaining unmarried.  This change in his relations to the Percivals would so far improve his social claims that many of the difficulties hitherto besieging such a scheme as this might easily be set aside.  Come, come; the atmosphere was clearing.  Joseph himself, now established in a decent business, would become less a fellow-intriguer than an ordinary friend bound to him, in the way of the world, by mutual interests.  Things must be put in order; by some device the need of secrecy in his intercourse with Joseph must come to an end.  In fact, there remained but two hazardous points.  Could the connection between Jane and Kirkwood be brought definitely to an end.  And was anything to be feared from poor ‘C.  V.’?

Waterloo Station is a convenient rendezvous; its irregular form provides many corners of retirement, out-of-the-way recesses where talk can be carried on in something like privacy.  To one of these secluded spots Scawthorne drew aside with the veiled woman who met him at the entrance from Waterloo Road.  So closely was her face shrouded, that he had at first a difficulty in catching the words she addressed to him.  The noise of an engine getting up steam, the rattle of cabs and porters’ barrows, the tread and voices of a multitude of people made fitting accompaniment to a dialogue which in every word presupposed the corruptions and miseries of a centre of modern life.

‘Why did you send that letter to my father?’ was Clara’s first question.

‘Letter?  What letter?’

‘Wasn’t it you who let him know about me?’

’Certainly not, How should I have known his address?  When I saw the newspapers, I went down to Bolton and made inquiries.  When I heard your father had been, I concluded you had yourself sent for him.  Otherwise, I should, of course, have tried to be useful to you in some way.  As it was, I supposed you would scarcely thank me for coming forward.’

It might or might not be the truth, as far as Clara was able to decide.  Possibly the information had come from some one else.  She knew him well enough to be assured by his tone that nothing more could be elicited from him on that point.

‘You are quite recovered, I hope?’ Scawthorne added, surveying her as she stood in the obscurity.  ‘In your general health?’